Pyromania
by Kazura
Summary: She is under no illusion that it would be easy. Rebuilding never has been.


**it's like searching for the right book**

She is not one to stay still. She knows _how_, knows _when_ it is more prudent to do so, but there persists a nagging feeling at the back of her mind, urging her wings to take flight when it does not put her life on the line, and she indulges it more often than not.

Said feeling is absent now, however, and she finds herself staring down at her gloved hands. They don't _feel_ different.

She purses her lips. Not _now_, at the very least. But _it's_ in there, inside her, somewhere, wrapping what coils it can around the rest of her nerves, doing so with such skill that she can only be grateful of its now slackened pace. If it has continued with the way it did the first time it returned—

Furrowing her brow, she clenches her hands. Even if it has, she _would_ still be standing here. She can't— No. She _won't_ let anything burn her from the inside. Not if she can fight it, and she _can_, with only tooth and nail if she has to.

"Etna?"

It is a soft, cautious sound, but it cuts through her thoughts with ease. Silently cursing herself for jumping, for _letting her guard down_, she turns around, boots clacking against the balcony's floor. Against the wind, her tail whips.

"What?" she demands, even before it has registered that it's Xenolith she's facing.

Petulantly, she likes to think that his face isn't completely blank, but try as she might, she can't read whatever expression it is he is wearing. Or suppressing. Maybe, just maybe, he isn't even feeling anything at all.

Somewhere in her mind, a fire lights itself.

Quietly, she shifts, and her hands now rest on her waist as she tilts her head. On the tip of her tongue is another question, one that inquires as to when it is that he has gotten himself behind her, but she thinks it through, as she often does, and deems it best not to let it out in the end.

In the first place, shouldn't she have known that, perceptive as she is?

Mildly irritated, she curls her lip. "Look, if you're just going to stand there—"

"It's not hurting," he mumbles, eyebrow moving slightly as he likely realizes that they have spoken simultaneously. "I'm sorry," he says. He pauses, and she can't really tell if he's hesitating, or simply choosing the right words. "But it's not, is it?"

With a slight shake of her head, she peers up at him. Why does he have to be so tall? "You're not making any sense," she says, shoving unnecessary questions aside. "What—" She stops, squints.

No. No, he is.

Centuries of living inside a castle that nests more demons than she finds necessary has harnessed her ability of choosing when it is appropriate to let her emotions show, and which of those emotions ought to be shown to begin with, but there is an increasing amount of vexation swelling up within her as she stares at his eyes, ones so similar to hers that she still can't tell if they're real or not.

"What if it is?" she manages through gritted teeth, a venomous smile stretching her lips. The matter of the artifact, of a thousand years lost, of a dozen other things she has put off discussing for a while hang in the air. She lets them, but does nothing more to let them foster. They can do that just fine by themselves after all.

Despite that, _despite that_, he says nothing, not aloud, but there is something, _something_, in his eyes that she wishes she could read.

She _could_ try deciphering it. She has often done that to others, mostly for her own amusement, partly for her own sake, as knowing what makes the demons around her tick can prove, and has proven itself, to be useful.

Still, with this one before her, she can't help feeling that trying to would only be a waste of time. Those other demons, they often wear what extreme emotion it is that fuels them on their sleeves.

_Xenolith_? Xenolith is different. That much she can tell. That much is _obvious_, frustratingly so, and there are times, rare but there still, when it all makes her want to throttle him.

"Well?" she then prods, all while trying to calm her breathing.

For a while, it seems like he plans on continuing to stay silent. Then, when the fire threatens to spread inside her once again, he speaks up, stopping it before it consumes everything in its way. "I would have to ask you to rest. And for the Overlord to let you," he says, neither sounding apologetic nor self-righteous.

She hates it. The fire is doused, but the heat is still there. Still _there_.

"Why?" she asks, not moving from where she has rooted herself. "Is he looking for me?" She receives a small nod as a reply, and she finally lets out a long sigh.

She tries it again, searching her… _brother's_ eyes. As before, she finds nothing, not even the slightest signs of wavering.

No, maybe that in itself _is_ something. She just has to find out, maybe even come up with what it means.

But not now, she decides, as a heavy weight wraps itself around her limbs. It invites defiance, and defiance it is that she chooses to give as she starts to move, her mind set on dragging herself towards the main hall.

She doesn't owe him anything. Not really. Not _really_. But—

"It doesn't," she says, looking back, her voice low, as if her very words are wary of the castle's many ears. "Hurt. Or whatever." She pauses. No, rather, she doesn't know how to react exactly, when faced with a gaze that is now searching _hers_. "Not now, anyway," she adds, her usual dismissive tone taking over for her.

For once, she probably shouldn't have let it.

She knows this one, this particular expression on his face, and it's one that she has preferred not seeing for a very long time, as it leaves her with a feeling of panic, one that apparently encourages the coils inside her to tighten their hold.

Flonne's usual doting self, she can handle, and the same goes for the Prince's curious abandonment issues, or at least semblance of such, fascinating as they are.

This, however, is different. Far too different. In too far a contrast with Xenolith's… _mask_, apparently, that it makes her look away again before it makes her stumble.

It doesn't stop the unwanted rush, however, and that day, that day _months_ ago, comes back, threatening to overwhelm her. All because of that wretched look on his face.

Inside, something starts _jabbing_.

"Etna," he says again, but she firmly dismisses it with a stubborn wave of her hand as she retreats, just as her instincts, that which she only trusts, that which shows itself _now_, urges her to flee.

"Later," she says all too quietly, and the word is dipped all too thoroughly with startling anxiety.

A part of her wishes he hasn't heard.

* * *

**in what was once a kingdom, now burnt beyond recognition**

She cannot pinpoint when it has started, what has suddenly made her insides twist and turn in frustration. She shouldn't be feeling such, shouldn't be directing this much loathing towards it, but she does, and it doesn't make any sense.

She should be welcoming it, after all. That is, the sense of nostalgia that wraps itself around her, more often now with her brother at her side.

She still can't believe it, that someone like him exists. In her life, even so.

Without a sound, she glances at him. Eyes closed, he has his back resting against a tree. Despite the heavy magic hanging around them in a disgustingly thick fog, he seems too calm, too at peace, too at _home_, and it makes her grit her teeth. In envy, or perhaps a bout of vexation brought about by confusion. She can't really distinguish, not at this point, not when the gnawing grows too much for her to bear.

Breathing deeply, she lets the edges of her mind, the ones she can spare, fray, if only for now. Her anger, after all, has little use here.

Slowly, but not completely, her mind starts to clear. What irrational fire has once eaten its way through her thoughts is now reduced to cinders. Still, in a kind of stubbornness that can only be hers, it clings, and she furrows her brow in disapproval as her lips twist into a spiteful frown.

"What's wrong?" Her eyes snap open, and there he is, with that _look_, with his voice carrying no hints of roughness, and yet the fire manages to take advantage of it all, setting itself ablaze all over again.

What's wrong? _What's wrong?_ Not _Is something wrong?_

It is difficult, not to squirm, not to do anything to betray her discomfort, not when he can read her so easily, when _she_ feels like looking at the thickest tome with the strangest symbols, only able to _guess_ the meaning of the shortest lines.

There's progress in that, at the very least. Of that, she tries to convince herself. Still, _still_, it's barely enough, and her frustration only grows.

"Nothing," she manages, the usual wry smile plastered on her lips. "Why would you even think there's something wrong?" She can see him, _hear him_, thinking, contemplating his next words carefully. She interrupts. "Had a nice nap?"

"I wasn't," he starts, but he stops, lets it drop. He tries again. "If you're feeling unwell, then perhaps—"

This time, she stands, effectively cutting him off. "I said," she says, trying not snap, "nothing's wrong." She circles the tree, craning upward before snatching two pieces of fruit from its branches. Almost grudgingly, she tosses one at him while she takes a bite on her own.

He catches it with ease, but it isn't until she has sat down again that he stops watching her. "The air doesn't bother you then?" he asks, still not taking a slightest nibble.

In an impulse, she counters, "Does it bother _you_?"

For a while, he simply breathes, the way she sees him do when weighing one thing against another. "No. I have grown too accustomed to it. Even if it should, it doesn't." His voice is too quiet, too soft, and she would have thought that she simply imagined him talking if she hasn't been observing him along the corner of her gaze.

She hums, a tad satisfied. Leaning back, she turns the fruit in her hands. "It's not the air," she finally admits.

His ears twitch ever so slightly, but he doesn't look at her, opting to close his eyes instead. He, too, hums in acknowledgement.

"Not in that sense anyway, I guess," she continues, pausing to take another bite. The bitterness is a welcome taste, for once. "If it were the others, yeah, they don't like it too much, but I'm probably… Yeah, I'm as used to it as you are."

Still, she can't help feeling a little too tense at odd intervals, but she is not willing to say that this time. Besides, he probably knows that already.

For a moment, it feels as if something is poking at her sides, but she has been expecting it, has been preparing for it, ever since she has woken up, and she manages not to show any hint of pain.

As quickly as it has come, it vanishes, only last one jab being a reminder of its passing.

"If we really lived here," she says, trying to shift as naturally as possible, "it shouldn't really come as a surprise, should it?"

"I suppose it shouldn't," he says, but there is uncertainty in his voice.

She tries hard not to smile, biting into her fruit when it is evident that she is unable to stop the corners of her mouth from curling.

That is what probably causes her to let herself slip. "So we really did live here then. In this kind of place."

In less than a second, she finds his eyes searching hers, trying all the while not to overstep anything. She almost laughs, but she doesn't, not when she's gathering what willpower she can to stare right back at him.

When he finally looks away, she summons what subtlety she can to slowly exhale.

"Yes," he says. "We did." Then, "Do you like it here?"

This time, she is truly is almost convinced that she has imagined it. Why would he ask that?

"Well," she says, slowly, carefully, "it's not _bad_, I guess. If you don't mind all the other demons."

The smile on his lips, subtle as it is, startles her, and she considers the thought that she has somehow fallen asleep in the middle of their conversation. She dismisses it as the bark of the tree behind her bites at her wings.

"What?" she demands, sounding a little too defensive, even to her own ears. There is a sharp tug, somewhere from inside of her, and it takes her too long to realize that it is the urge of hypocrisy.

"Ah, it's—"

"Did I hate it before?" Before she could even stop herself, she pushes those words out of her mouth, sending them into a rough tumble that almost makes _her_ cringe. "No, ever mi—"

"No," he says, almost at the same time, before clamping his mouth shut and showing no signs of planning to elaborate.

There is a tug again, but she ignores it, finishing what has remained of her food before tossing the core aside, the aftertaste still lingering in her mouth.

What she would have normally accepted, she swats away, as the heavy silence is becoming a little too much, more so when coupled with the already vexing magic in the air.

Letting the fire get the best of her, she points a finger at the fruit cradled by her brother's hands. "You don't have to take something you don't like, you know," she says, almost spitting it out, because it dawns on her that he would be the sort to accept anything, _anything_, at this point.

Too slow, she wants to snap, when he takes far too many moments, staring at her finger.

Then, _then_, "I like it."

It sounds strange, coming from him, and she almost trips in an attempt to hide her surprise, to which he replies with the slightest semblance of another smile. "Thank you," he adds. "I'm sorry. I forgot."

Forgot? Forgot what? To _thank_ her?

She stares at him incredulously, as is one of her common responses to something entirely too absurd, even for demon standards.

Inside her, it is as if the fire shares the same sentiments, as it stops, then wastes no time in flickering, _flickering_, and disappearing altogether, the slightest feeling of heat being the only indication of its existence.

Taking a deep breath, she looks back at the field laid out before them, and another wave of nostalgia brushes past her, cautiously at first, gradually getting bolder, yet still frustratingly stubborn at the last minute.

She almost kicks at the ground, but opts to bump the back of her head against the tree, giving it a good shake that makes her brother blink at _her_ this time around, his hand just pausing in midair as he brings the fruit closer to his mouth.

The sight amuses her enough, for some reason, and she closes her eyes in an odd satisfaction.

These things take time. It's the sort of thing that _Flonne_ would say, but she considers giving it a try, mocking it all the while with a thin, brittle smile.

Maybe she doesn't _have_ to remember, too. It's easy, hearing the fallen angel's voice. These ones, however, she rejects, because she can feel the land taunting her, and she won't let it get its way.

* * *

**and miraculously finding something in what ashes remain**

"I'm thinking of going away for a while."

He freezes, just as she has expected, and there is a part of her that is, at the very least, pleased that she can see that much now, see his discomfort, sense the beginnings of his protests before he can even _form_ them properly.

It is quite a feat, she thinks, considering the howling of the Eviland, but she endures it, as this is the only place she deems it wise to speak of anything like this, with the castle full of nosy demons and chattering Prinnies. Here, at the very least, the magic—the land's and her own—provides protection.

She holds up a hand before his thoughts grow any further.

"No," she says, her voice as firm as it could possibly be, because she would need that much in front of this stupid brother who can only be deemed as stubborn as she is. If there is something that stands out the most amidst what little similarities she has somehow found, it's that.

"No," she repeats, letting her hand fall. "You can't come with me." She breathes in deeply, her gaze never straying from his. When she speaks again, her throat feels a little too dry, her lips a little too cracked, but she presses on, even when the magic and what circuits it has spread inside her starts to jab at her insides again. "I have to do this on my own. I can't rely on you."

Not on anyone.

He grimaces, and she accepts that he is aware of what words have been unspoken. This once, she is actually grateful for what aids him in reading her to this extent. What words that have passed her lips are already making _her_ squirm.

But if she is to prevent him from following her—being… _worried_ for her, too _much_, a little _too_ much—then this is only necessary. Knowing that someone does _still_ doesn't sit well with her.

For once, if only slightly, his shoulders slack. Softly, as always, he says, "Won't you get used to it?"

Her lips form a grim line. "Can't. Won't." It's a little too stubborn, compared to the past weeks. He thinks of that much, judging from the furrowing of his brow, but she won't back down now, even if it's him. Or rather, even more so because it's him.

Besides, he's asking far too much. Get used to it, he says. Get used to relying on someone else. She has spent far too long not doing that, far too long relying only on herself, and that decision has served her very well for the entirety of her stay in the Overlord's Castle, den that it is.

Even if it's him, it won't be easy, and she'd really rather not. Too many risks. Far too many.

There is a hum, and he shifts, his gaze doing the same. "But alone—"

"Not really," she says, shrugging. "I mean, yeah, I'm planning on finding something without anyone's help, but I won't _completely_ be alone or anything like that. I'll have the Prinnies with me."

"And Overlord Laharl? Flonne?"

Briefly, she purses her lips. "No, not even them." She considers pointing out that he is not exactly one to talk about being alone, _doing_ things alone, deciding to leave everything else behind, but she chooses not to, as she often does, not at a time like this.

She is not entirely certain, however, if the alternative she has chosen is any better, and her hesitation couldn't be anymore visible. Finally, after folding her arms in an almost unconscious attempt to shield herself, she manages.

"Trust me on this." The word is too foreign, too _dangerous_, and it almost makes her want to turn back time, if only to prevent herself from saying such a thing. It is just as unreasonable, she realizes, to ask that of him when she cannot do the same _for_ him, and there is quite possibly _something_ tugging at her chest, urging her to amend for it.

Carefully, as if sending her words off to tread on the thinnest ice, she says, "I can try to do at least that for you, if _you're_ going to do the same for me."

For a moment, she thinks he would choose not to answer, dodging the matter instead and using silence as _his_ shield. When he opens his mouth, with an almost inaudible "very well" escaping his lips, she finds herself tempted to make him repeat his words, if only louder this time.

She settles with giving him a smile, as subtle and as rare as his own little ones, and without the slightest hint of sarcasm. It feels almost unnatural, yet not quite so, and she quickly dismisses it and his entirely too quiet concerns with a wave of her hand. "Don't worry."

There is a sigh, and she welcomes it with a grin. "When you say those words—"

"Yeah, yeah. I know. You end up doing it anyway." It's one of those things she'll never completely learn to live with, and it invites the driest smile onto her lips. "I don't need someone to _coddle_ me. Besides, it's not like I'll go away for a decade or something. Probably just a year tops. Or even a month."

He simply nods, and the next thing that comes out of his mouth is not a protest. "Have you told them?"

She wrinkles her nose. "Planning to. The Prince gets all sorts of cranky whenever someone runs off 'without permission'. He already warned you that much, didn't he?"

A long-suffering smile graces his lips, and she twists her lips into a smirk in return. "He has, yes."

"Overbearing," she says, echoing his conclusions. She lets out a snort. "You haven't seen enough yet." She pauses, tilting her head in thought. "I _could_ just make up some other reason though."

He blinks at her, the hints of his smile now nowhere to be found. "Are you sure that's wise?"

She waggles her fingers at him. "It's not about being wise or not. It's about messing with him. You should try it sometime. It's fun."

For a while, he simply stares at her, as if he's considering more than a dozen ways to react. In the end, he only allows his gaze to soften.

There is an urge to accuse him of making it a habit, startling her.

"I don't think he is fond of me enough to let something like that slide," he says. She opens her mouth to snap, as the idea of the Prince being… _fond_ of anything or _anyone_ is not something she'd rather discuss.

And just what does _that_ imply?

But he leaves it behind, much to her annoyance. "Flonne then?"

She folds her arms and almost pouts. _Almost_. "Don't know. I _could_ tell her, since she can be worse than you." In worrying, as she always does, and in reading her, which took her a long time to do, but still somehow managed to, mastering it as close to perfection as _Flonne_ possibly could.

She doesn't really know whether she's going to be irritated or proud.

Following an exasperated sigh, she says, "_She_ might tell the Prince though. Can't have that."

"You're really not going to tell them the truth?" he asks.

Her wry smile returns a little too easily. For someone who dislikes being asked, he himself has been throwing too many questions her way. "Maybe I will, maybe I won't. You don't _have_ to say anything to them though. In fact, you can go wherever you want while I'm gone." She pauses, leers. "Aside from following me, of course."

"Of course," he echoes.

Her cheek twitches. "_Anyway_," she says, purposively sounding a little too chipper, "don't take too long. Or go too far. Looking for you when I get back would be too troublesome, so _don't_ make me do it. And, as I said, tell the Prince, so—"

"Etna."

She raises an eyebrow. There's that soft tone again. "What?"

"Please be careful."

Struggling to read his emotions, especially when he has learned how to hide them so well, has been quite a chore when she first started, and it has brought her the most peculiar amount of satisfaction after she has gone past the stage of simply scratching at the surface.

Now, however, she can't decide if that has been a mistake, cracking too much of the mask he has carefully constructed while she faces his bare concern as it is. It proves to be all too difficult, trying not to look away, and the gritting of her teeth is quite possibly the only thing assisting her in that regard.

"You…" She alternates between clenching and unclenching her fists. Giving in, she closes her eyes and simply breathes for a while as she contains the beginnings of what seems to be another fire. She lets out a sigh when it fizzles out.

"I already told you," she says. "Don't worry. There's no _need_ to. And considering that I've already told you that, shouldn't it go without saying that I _will_ be?" She pauses, looking at him steadily. "I won't die."

_He_ looks away, much to her frustration. "I _won't_," she then repeats. In an impulse born of her own stubbornness and sudden urge to spite him, she snaps, "I'll still go, whether you want me to or not."

Resting a hand against his other arm, he hums in acknowledgement.

She sighs, suddenly feeling weary. "_When_ I get back," she says, because it's not an _if_, "I'm going to continue to ask _you_ more questions. You'd better be prepared."

She thinks it not entirely unreasonable, not entirely presumptuous, assuming that there is another smile on her brother's lips before it appears. A part of her longs to point out that he's smiling a little _too_ often today, wrapped around such a suffocating for as they are, but she just flashes one of her impish smirks.

There is another jab, somewhere inside her, as if reminding her that it's not over, not _yet_, and that she still has to find something, come up with a solution of her own if she has to, but she endures it, _fights_ it. Losing to it, even _considering_ the idea of losing to something like it, is entirely unacceptable.

She has promises to keep.


End file.
